Paperwork
by Aea
Summary: Five times Natasha had to shoot Clint, and the one time she just wanted to, as reported by Phil Coulson. Warnings for mentions of suicide, torture, and non-graphic violence
1. Chapter 1

This is my first leap into Marvel territory (I've traditionally been a more Batman oriented fan) but I was ridiculously interested by this prompt on avengerkink and I just couldn't stop myself. I have so much headcannon around how these two met and work together that it's probably a little sad, but I couldn't resist trying to work out all reasons Natasha might have felt it necessary to shoot Clint;-) I meant to make this lighthearted and funny, but that…didn't really happen. Sorry!

Depending on your personal slant, you can read this as either shippy or BAMF!BFFs at work. It works either way. I have absolutely no knowledge of the comic-canon for any of this. I've seen the movies and read a bit on the internet, but most of this is guesswork and make believe;-)

Five Times Natasha Had To Shoot Clint, and One Time She Just Wanted To  
OR: A Selection of Excerpts from Coulson's Form 444c (Agent-Involved-In-Shooting-Clint) Collection.

1. From Case #0399-4: _This has resulted in Agent Barton losing his credit card privileges until further notice. _

She comes back to consciousness in stages, which is only surprising because she hadn't expected to wake back up at all. Still, training and time means Natalia knows to stay perfectly still until she can take stock of her situation. She's got no more injuries than the ones she lost consciousness with, and the worst of them, the puncture wound at her hip, has inexplicably been dressed. Ankles are bound, but not her knees (she can work with that); wrists tied behind her back (some type of cord that will be hard to get out of without a sharp edge, but she can find one after her captor is dead); no blindfold. Every weapon she had on her is gone, but at least she's still wearing all her clothing. All in all, she's woken up worse.

Voices drift over the hum an engine. Some kind of aircraft; single pilot in communication with at least one other.

Conversation. Americans. Hawkeye.

He is now being called "Barton" and quickly demonstrates that he has attitude with everyone, not just her, so she'll let the one being pestered ("Coulson"…?) live if he's present when she escapes. He's clearly earned the mercy. They are arranging some kind of rendezvous point, as their primary has been compromised, and Barton seems to take his orders from this voice. More or less.

Well, perhaps less than more. She's crossed paths with Hawkeye before, albeit never face-to-face, and is a little flattered that her exploits have merited him as an opponent, but her respect for man who supposedly took out Anton Dragoff at 400 meters is rapidly dwindling. That he has not followed protocol is obvious, and his handler is upset.

The aircraft is slowing now, descending. The engine noise is a slight bit quieter and Natalia hears the final words of the conversation from the voice over the speaker, which are loud and thick: "Jesus, Barton. Don't speak to her. Or look at her. Or go near her. She will kill you and I just might let her. Lock her in storage and I'll meet you with a team." Natalia knows what is not said: To finish the job.

"You didn't see what I saw." Barton knows too. "She's got it in her. _This_ is in her."

There is only silence after that.

Natalia takes a gamble and opens her eyes. She doesn't know what awaits her at landing, so she needs every second she can get now.

"Your handler seems competent. You should listen to him." If Barton is surprised that she's awake, he doesn't show it. Natalia takes a moment to look around. Several of her weapons are casually placed on the co-pilot seat next to him, a temptation, but she's near the back of the craft and his bow is next to him. They both know she'd never make the distance.

"There are worse people to work for." Barton agrees, with a glance in her direction. "You interested?"

"I'm not really the corporate type." It's the concussion she _must _have, and not the knowing look in his eyes, that causes her to answer him. "You didn't strike me as a CIA flunky, either."

Barton actually laughs out loud. "Oh, trust me- we're _way_ worse than those fuckers." There is silence until plane hits the ground smoothly, and after it stops he turns from his seat to face her. Natalia's eyes narrow. That _worse-than-a-fucker_ is wearing _her _sidearm on_ his _belt.

He's a dead man.

The engines are quiet and the outside is too. They are not where they are supposed to be; his backup is not here. Barton stands. "Look, what you were doing in San Paulo was suicide. We both know it." He steps closer. Natalia looks up at him with wary eyes. "You want to end your life? I can see why. But don't be a _waste_. I can offer you a chance to have a new one."

She looks down, hiding her face, and shudders. Barton leans in and places a hand on her shoulder.

_Bingo_. The White Knight types always fall for it.

Natalia flattens her palms against the floor and catches Barton in the face with her knee. He only falters slightly, but she was waiting for it. She moves fast to his left side and reaches into his pocket, slips her gun from his holster and an arrow from the quiver on his back in smooth motions. She frees her ankles with the sharp tip quickly, but her captor is has not earned his reputation for nothing. He rolls over one shoulder, grabs and loads his weapon in less than a second.

A standoff. "This doesn't have to get messy. The offer still stands. Be your own person for once. "

There are flashing lights and motors in the distance, steadily coming closer and Natalia tenses. Barton might be willing to spare her, but the rest of his team is not, and although going down in a violent firefight was appealing a few hours ago, she suddenly finds herself tired and conflicted. He notices the source of her discomfort.

"I'll back your play." He says softly. "If want to go, then go. You are obviously not going to keep yourself alive long enough to be of any concern to me anyway. But, Natalia, if you want to stay-_fuck, Romanova!_"

Natalia calmly shoots him in the shoulder and sweeps his bow away with her foot. It's a through-and-through; no permanent damage. A professional courtesy. "It's not a bad wound. But it should make things easier on you. Your boss will think you tried to stop me." He shouldn't have to pay the price of failure because she can't decide whether to live or die.

"I could have just _told_ them that!" He snaps, as he tries to press a piece of cloth around the gash. "My people actually trust me and have my back. We could have yours too."

Natalia shrugs. People lie all the time. Blood is more convincing. "I'll think about your offer." She waves the wallet she pulled from him. "I'm sure I have your card."

She slips out of the jet, streaks the opposite direction of the incoming caravan for some time, and briefly considers just putting her weapon to her head. She's cold and dirty and there's an ever-growing list of things- _peoplefeelingsghostsbullets-_ that she's running from all the time now.

_You are obviously not going to keep yourself alive long enough to be of any concern to me anyway. _The words echo in her head. She must, at least, at the _very_ least, get far and lost enough that Hawkeye won't ever know. It's unfair of her- she'd be righteously pissed if one of her marks escaped only to off themselves hours later- but something in her just can't stand the thought that he'll know he was right.

By time she reaches anything resembling civilization, the first dark alley she comes across has an undeniable appeal, but is unfortunately occupied by two drunken punks trying to pull a pretty fifteen year old off the main street. They don't even know what hit them before they die.

The girl is sobbing. "Wha- What're _you_ going to do to me?" Natalia pulls all the cash from Barton's wallet and hands her the wad. She's got the wrong hair color and speaks the wrong language, but to Natalia, this girl is suddenly no different than a girl half a year and half the world away that she _didn't _save. She doesn't need to torture little girls to death anymore. Maybe she _could_ save them instead.

There are two credit cards left in the wallet and no id. Natalia picks the unmarked black one to check into the most expensive hotel she can find. She hesitates when the clerk asks for the name.

_Don't be a waste. Be your own person._ Maybe it is time for someone new. "Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff."

The room is nice, nicer than anything she's allowed herself lately, but she doesn't sleep. She sits in a chair, next to the window, with the lights on all night. If he comes back to kill her, she can at least make it easier this time.

She refuses to acknowledge disappointment when it's Phil Coulson who knocks on her hotel room door the next day. "Agent Barton will be on medical leave for the next two weeks. You're my probationary agent until then. Sign this form." It is not a question. "I know it's hard, but in the future, please try to not to shoot him."

She signs the form but makes no promises.


	2. Chapter 2

2. From Case #2526-9: …_But thankfully, Agent Barton did not keep it in his pants._

The mission brief is less than a page long. Barton double takes when Coulson hands it over and makes a show of looking for more. "You wrote this? Did you pass out partway through?"

Coulson ignores him and concentrates on Natasha, who is the only one that would have read the file regardless of its brevity. "A highly modified version of the Stuxnet virus is has been set loose. We've seen pieces of it here and there- snippets released to prove its authenticity and effectiveness- but the whole kit and caboodle is now available for download by anyone who's willing to hand over enough money."

"Isn't this a cyber-weapon from _your_ government?" There's bound to be heavy interest in it. That sounded like something she could get her teeth into. After six months of little else but observation in the field, the Black Widow is itching to _do_ something.

Coulson tilts his head. "This is an unauthorized manipulation of the original code. Fortunately, it's useless without the encryption key. That gets delivered separately to anyone who makes the purchase."

"This sounds like something the geek squad should be handling." Barton is skeptical.

"We could shut the public server down if we needed to, but we'd rather deal with a devil we know than one we don't. You two are going to acquire the hard drive with the code and key, replace it with this one," Coulson holds up a small box, "and then… _obstruct_ anyone who shows up to fix it."

They are in and out in no time, of course, because this sort of thing is child's play. They break into a nondescript Hammer Industries office building in London, Clint tucks the hard drive into a pocket in his shirt and Natasha gives him a _look_ when he takes the time to lock the door behind them ("And just let anyone walk right in? You have _no_ manners.").

There's a small snag on the exfil.

They make it to the lobby without incident. Hawkeye turns to her, undoubtedly to make some sort of quip, as is his habit, when he freezes and mutters a curse. His head tilts ever-so-slightly up and to the right and although she can't see his eyes behind the glasses he's wearing, the benefit of all the low-level reconnaissance missions they've been doing lately is that she's had plenty of time to learn his body language. He's looking for something. Someone.

"There's a laser sight on you from the roof across the street." He says softly, raising his bow. Widow draws her handguns as he continues. "Move behind m-"

"I wouldn't move if I were you." A new voice.

Black Widow angles her arm in the direction of the noise, weapon ready, and holds back a sigh. _Why do people always say that?_ The voice must belong to one of the two people who appear from the corridor across from them, and Black Widows feels insulted for a moment. Really, _two_?

"All of our tech is outfitted with tracking." One of the guards supplies. "Can't have things wandering off, you know? And conveniently, the lobby has quite the automated armament." There's a low hum of electronics coming to life, and several fierce looking firearms tilt down from the ceiling in their direction.

Though he hasn't moved an inch off his distant target, Hawkeye's glasses have slipped- she can see his eyes, now- and he keeps glancing downward. It only takes her a second to understand: _they can't hit if they have nothing to aim at. _

She doesn't understand this…this…_hesitation_ that seems to grip her.

One deep breath. Two.

She aims for his heart, pulls the trigger, and dives for the floor.

_He's wearing Kevlar. _She watched him pull it on with ease born of longstanding routine less than only a few hours ago. _He's wearing Kevlar. _It still gives her pause, because for the first time, _ever_, it makes a difference. _He's wearing Kevlar. _But then Hawkeye slumps down and suddenly _knowing_ doesn't seem to be all that helpful.

_He'swearingKevlar. He'swearingKevlarhe's wearingKevlar._ The litany in her head won't stop as she tosses two charges toward the guards, watching the electric shock arc between them and send them to the ground.

Six months ago, she would have shot without hesitation regardless. She _had _to shoot now, she knows, no matter what. But even so, _knowing_ makes a difference. Keeping him alive makes a difference. She's never wanted to protect anyone before.

Clint's breathing is labored, but his eyes are open, so the Black Widow grabs his arm and drags him closer to cover. With the men on the ground gone, they probably don't have much to worry about, but she's taking no chances.

"Nice shot, Tasha." He gasps, pulling mangled pieces of electronics from his breast pocket.

She meant to only let him get away with using a nickname just that one time, but somehow it stuck anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

3 & 4 (One report since they happened pretty close together). From Case #5552-2 – …_So _p_erhaps Agent Sitwell ought to read his memos more carefully in the future._

She's not been given any actual _elimination_ missions yet, of course, even though she's taken more than few lives on the job. It's really been all baby strolls for the past several months, and the fact that Barton always goes with her only irritates her further. She doesn't need or appreciate a babysitter, even though she knows what really going on. For a little while he passed it off as being punished for letting her live; Black Widow _is_ difficult to work with, so that was probably true at first. She notices, of course, that he's always around when there's word that Coulson or Fury is looking for her, but it's when he breaks the collarbone of the junior agent assigned to assist her infiltration of a Chinese electronics firm in a "training accident" and volunteers for the spot that she forces the confession from him.

She knows what they whisper behind her back.

Traitor.

Double Agent.

Mole.

_Spy._

It is what it is. The meager thoughts of recruits new to death and the without the weight of a past, new agents with more audacity than sense (she never calls them _young_ because that doesn't mean anything), who need an experienced voice over their shoulder to toe the line. But she isn't allowed that, not really. She can't stay just inside the line. She can't go near the line or even _look_ at the line for too long. Every last one of her co-workers is ready to put a bullet in her head the second she does.

So if it's going to happen, if it _needs_ to happen, he wants it to be on him and not a blustering green gun looking for a résumé boost.

But after over a year in the fold, Coulson must finally be ready to pull off the training wheels because he drops her solo into an intel-gathering, undercover assignment to play returning-double-agent with a breakaway faction of former KGB that's making trouble with mobsters in Odessa.

She _hates_ Odessa.

Still, Coulson doesn't know that and it's a good mission even though this trick will only work once, (maybe twice, if she kills everyone here on her way out) and for a little while it is sort of fun. She's been supplied with a dossier of juicy and totally legitimate-looking Interpol documents to spill as proof that she's back to working for the "bad guys", and so far all the people she's been asked to torture are the minions of other bad guys, so she doesn't feel too put out about it.

It is _not_ a huge problem that she has to supply her own sarcastic quips from time to time. It's not like she _misses_ having a partner or anything. Plus, no one fights with her music selections (because the Black Widow is s_cary_ around here and that's the way she likes it). It is _not_ a problem that the compound has no windows and few doors, and she hasn't seen the sun in weeks. Just because she's grown used to the wind hitting her face from a rooftop, or gained a healthy appreciation for fortresses that hover well-above the cloud line, doesn't mean she can't handle other things. She's Russian, after all. Sunlight is optional.

What is a problem is that her comrades are suspecting a leak, but she's uploaded just about all the data she needs, and all she's waiting on is one more set of purchase records and Coulson's go-ahead to shut them down.

The day starts normally enough: she's just wrapped up a 12 hour shift "assisting" their resident mad-scientist when she's called into an interrogation by two of the local boss's favorite lackeys- a huge lug of an enforcer, and a slim wise-guy that Natasha often wants to punch in the face. Natasha blames Clint's influence because she doesn't care about their real names, and privately nicknamed them "Moose" and "Squirrel" before she could stop herself. They tell her they've identified the source of their information leak, and Black Widow considers it her lucky day. Not so lucky for whatever poor sap she's about to blame for her own good work, if he's even still alive by the time she gets there.

She does not expect to see Hawkeye handcuffed to a chair, but she covers it well. ("An American? This is trouble we don't need.")

He does not expect to see Black Widow working as interrogator, and she must be tired because she can't quite tell if he's trying to stay to cover or just fucking with her. ("D_a_mn, sugar, I'll talk to you any time.")

Either way, he deserves it when she slaps him.

"Sergei heard him walking around on the roof." Squirrel offers, narrowing his eyes in explanation, tossing Hawkeye's confiscated weapons onto the room's only table. Natasha lifts and eyebrow and notices the lack of a bow among his belongings. He must have hidden it somewhere close by before allowing himself to be taken. "He refused to tell us who he works for. Sergei wants you to…persuade him. And then clean up."

The Black Widow nods, but she has to bite back the thrum of betrayal. Seeing him here is more painful than it should be- a weakness brought on by trust. She's done her job and done it well. Why would SHIELD send him in now?

But in her head, the answer, like so many other marks, cannot be erased or avoided: _Too well? You cannot undo what you have been, Natalia. Good people will never look at you without seeing your past. Were you supposed to reject mission? Is it a test you failed?_

Hawkeye is looking at her curiously, remarkably calm and interested for someone who should be pretending to confront death. Natasha studies his face for a moment and tries to feel…_something _more useful than hurt_._

Anger, maybe. She can work with that.

She strides further into the room with great purpose, kicking the metal chair she usually uses against the wall with a resounding _clang!_ A pivot and two steps, and she has two fistfuls of Hawkeye's collar in her hands.

"_Why are you here_?" It is not a _shout_. The Black Widow does _not_ shout. It forces her captive to blink in surprise, though he only looks on in silence.

"Would you like me to break his fingers?" Moose is getting impatient, and Natasha knows she needs to find a way to contain this. This organization is not much for strategic thought; they will want Hawkeye dead, and if rumors leave this room that she's unwilling to do it, it's a death warrant for both of them.

"Antiquated methodology." She pulls out her weapon. They are both aware that he is here knowing full well that there would be unpleasant consequences. But she would rather it come from herself than anyone else; if she can't make it _nice_ she at least can stop it from being _worse_. They don't have good enough facilities to hold him here, but he'll need to be in mostly working order to fight his way out. And he _will_ leave. SHIELD may have ordered him to put down a traitor, but it's not worth his life.

"I will only be polite for so long. Why are you here?" She moves quickly; he doesn't see it coming. _Ptshh!_ Small caliber wound; red drips on the seat of the chair, but it's slow.

"Feel like talking yet?" She pauses, leans into him, scooping her head down in front of his so he has to look at her. It takes every second of two decades of training to smooth her face- and pull the trigger again. Clint gasps but otherwise doesn't make a sound. It's a convincing reaction and when her two comrades finally smirk and nod at each other Natasha knows it saved his life. "Still no? Very well." She sighs and pretends to yawn and stretch. "Show him our finest hospitality for a few hours. I need to get some sleep before this can continue; I've got a feeling it'll take a little while."

Clint huffs behind her, very much offended. "Wait, what? I'm not just _leaving _you. You're being unfair."

Natasha spins back around the face him in disbelief. "_Unfair_? _I'm _being unfair? Are you serious?"

"You'll do what you're told." Squirrel tells him, oblivious to the actual conversation.

They haul Hawkeye off, muttering profanities under his breath, and Natasha pretends not to hear the sound of distant scuffle a few hours later. Three days after that, though, when she returns to base successful, he's waiting for her.

"I'm sorry."

She ignores him.

"Honestly, Nat." She _never_ should have let him start with the nicknames. Despite the fact that she hasn't spoken to him, looked at him, or even stopped walking to acknowledge his presence, Clint falls into step next to her and continues talking. "Nobody thought you-"

"Nobody thought what? That I was coming back? That I was taking your dirty laundry back to Mother Russia?"

Clint looks stunned. He even stops walking for a moment and has to jog several steps to catch up again.

"The_ fuck_, Tash? Where's _that_ coming from?"

"I _know_ why you were there, ok? I didn't need the show." She does not add _it could have gotten you killed._

This time when he pauses his hand wraps around her arm, forcing her to stop and face him. "Just what _do _you think I was there for?" Natasha is silent; Clint's hand drops from her arm. "You thought I was there to keep you in line." He shakes his head.

"Fury called Coulson out to handle something in California, so Agent Sitwell's been covering for him. He had no idea you were already in. Internet traffic from that location has picked up in the past couple of weeks. Seemed like they were about to make a move, so Sitwell thought it was a good time to take them down. I didn't even want you involved. You _hate _Odessa."

"I _do_ hate Odessa." The anger, the betrayal, slowly fizzles out of her.

"I know." His voice is soft. "I thought I'd be in and out before you got back. Your profile said you were on deep cover in the UK."

"UK_R_! _Ukraine._"

"Ohhh." Clint realizes. "Whoops."

She loses her mind and gives him a hug, but that part never, ever, makes the official report. After that, sometimes they work alone, but never with anyone else.


	4. Chapter 4

5. From Case #8544-6 –_Agents Barton and Romanoff are both extraordinarily talented operatives, but we should probably just play our strengths from now on._

It's not even close to the _strangest_ bait job the Black Widow's ever done, but it's certainly up there with the most boring.

Natasha Romanoff is a spy by both nature and choice; she has an appreciation for the subtle and elegant. She can be the life of the party, or the shy wallflower and attract your attention either way. She knows not to overplay tears or laughter, because men want to affect delicate girls, but don't want to battle a hysterical one; she knows to misquote minor words in major works of poetry because seeming too smart is so much more dangerous than being an idiot. She can be polite without being warm and detached without being cold (_can_ be, but rarely is).

She likes to control the play. She is _not_ the sort of person who likes to wait around for someone else to make the first move.

"I can _see_ you fidgeting from here." Her earpiece clicks to life. Even if he couldn't, they've been working together for four years now; Clint knows her well enough to guess when she's aching for action.

Natasha checks his direction with the scope of her rifle and grins. "Likewise. You might blend in better if you actually ordered something though. Or spoke to other people? Cute blonde bartender at your nine o'clock has been checking you out all night."

There aren't a _lot_ of people on their side of the fight who are in a position to send sanctioned assassins after high profile targets, and there are even _less _who will admit to it when it goes wrong. So when Nick Fury, over the course of several months, gets three separate reports of someone slitting the throats of a few not-quite-SHIELD-caliber-but-still-pretty-good snipers while on the job hunting members of a particular cartel in southern Mexico he takes it very seriously.

Coulson tells them that their "cover" is going to be Julian Rojas, a cartel lieutenant in Veracruz whose star was rising for his smooth money laundering skills, hosting a visit from one of the cartel's allies out of Tijuana. He's a numbers man, and a terrible combination of both smart and cruel.

"So if we could get Rojas _and_ our mystery sniper, that'd be pretty great." Coulson summarizes.

Several government and not-quite government entities have invested a lot in trying to kill several high ranking members of this cartel-turned-political-machine-turned-terror-specialist. Someone has gotten the drop on every attempt and since results aren't pretty, there's an fairly undignified squabble over position when Hawkeye and Black Widow get assigned to root out the assassin's assassin.

_("I'm better at hand to hand. I should be up there with you." Natasha jabbed a punch his direction in emphasis._

"_It's too open on the roof. You can only look so many directions and they can come from anywhere. If you're closer to the source," Clint ducked under her arm and stepped inward, his face popping up two inches from her ear. He blocked a second punch with his forearm. "You can catch them off guard. Then we have solid chance to catch the guy _and_ kill Rojas."_

"_Exactly. You kill Rojas, and," Natasha is not the Black Widow for nothing. She grabbed his arm for leverage and looped a thigh around his neck. They both hit the ground. "I'll kill whoever tries to stop you."_

_Clint rolls and tosses Natasha five or six feet to his left. "That won't _work_, Nat. We don't have _time_ for a firefight up there. As soon as Rojas suspects trouble he'll send an army out after us. He's had too many good men killed to let him get away."_

_Things probably would have devolved into hair pulling after that except Coulson walked up and casually offered to TASER them both if they couldn't behave.)_

It ends up with nobody really getting what they want, which, Clint supposes, is the sign of a good compromise.

They narrow down Rojas's meeting location, and Natasha identifies a rooftop some distance off with the best vantage point. Since she _is_ better at hand-to-hand, she'll play the big gun and draw out their mystery assailant, but patience and distance isn't her strongest area. If she has to take to a shot with the rifle, accounting for the drop and spiral and wind will makes things difficult.

Clint spends his lunch hour chatting up employees at the rooftop bar next door to Rojas's meeting and wrangles an invite to return around closing time the next night. His weapon of choice is easily and unobtrusively hidden under a ledge before leaving. He has a better field of vision to cover Natasha from here, and tag Rojas effortlessly if need be, but the price of not raising the alarm or being a target himself is that he'll have to manage a cover all night.

Which is why, a day later, nobody is having a very good time. It has its moments; they both agree on that later. Natasha whistles appreciatively at the well-fitting jeans and t-shirt he appears in, and Clint gulps noticeably when she picks up the M40A5 from the armory cache.

But mostly, it's awful.

"I can _see_ you fidgeting from here." Her earpiece clicks to life. She not _exactly _trying to hide herself, but even if he couldn't see her, they've been working together for four years now; Clint knows her well enough to guess when she's aching for action.

Natasha checks his direction with the scope of her rifle and grins. "Likewise. You might blend in better if you actually ordered something though. Or spoke to other people? Cute blonde bartender at your nine o'clock has been checking you out all night." There's a shift in the shadows just below him, and Natasha moves her weapon slightly to examine it.

"I'm supposed to go out with her later, but this spot has the best view. I'm not moving." Clint can tell she's seen something because when she next murmurs into her mic it's in full Black Widow mode.

"There's movement two floors directly below you, indoors, east side. I can't tell if it's our guy or not. And our man from Tijuana just pulled up next door."

"Keep an eye out for Rojas. I'll give a shout if I need you on my side."

He has to leave the bow- too conspicuous- but he's got his sidearm and sniper support and he's confident that's more than enough to handle things (he'll feel retroactively less confident later when he reads the mission report and finds out that even though Black Widow ignores his order to stay on the meet and follows him in her scope as best she can, he's only visible to her when he's walking past lit windows, which is not very often. She only sees the ensuing fight in small parts). The struggle lasts longer than it really should, and there are more than a few disconcerting thumps over his mic before he's back online. There are two quick shots fired and then silence. Natasha holds her breath and tightens her trigger finger until her headset beeps again.

"You still there?" Black Widow strains to hear him as she exhales; the sound is weak and full of static. He let the fight go on too long and must've let the tech take too much damage. "My earpiece is dead. I think the mic is still working but if it turns out later that I'm talking to myself I'll deny everything."

Black Widow feels her lips quirk into a half-smile. She _could _signal she heard him with a flashlight or similar means, but not only would that give away her position (she's fine with that, maybe it would finally get her some action) but likely his too. Also, it would be significantly less funny.

"Seems like Rojas was observing from here also. He's down. I'm going clean up and then go back to the roof to keep an eye on you."

Natasha is partially relieved and partially furious, because she's not had that much to do all night and now that her mark is down, she has even less. It's late now and the bar is closing; she can't even amuse herself with the increasingly drunken antics of its patrons. Clint's date, especially, is looking increasingly unhappy, her plans for the evening lost as she shuts off lights and locks the register.

But then things get a little strange. The girl is arguing with someone on her cell phone, quite angrily, and she suddenly rushes to east side and gives the building where the meet should have happened a once over, before returning behind the bar and retrieving her purse and moving into the restroom.

Black Widow's eyes narrow and she quickly moves to check on her partner. He's finishing up below, and is on the move.

As she tries to follow him on his way back up, Natasha notices a tiny glint of reflected light to the right of the now-darkened entrance at the roof. The ordinary observer might dismiss it, but to one as well acquainted with the matter as the Black Widow, it was unmistakably the highlight coming off the edge of a KA-BAR.

In the hand of Clint's stood-up bartender, who's lost the uniform and now looks much more formidable. _Damn it, Barton, you sure can pick'em, _Natasha sighs to herself, wishing Clint could hear her make fun of him as she lines up the shot.

He opens the door and steps out at exactly the wrong moment, and she will forever, _until the day she dies_ _and even long after that_, claim that she intentionally grazed his ear to warn him.

When she gets back, she'll delete the audio of the sound she made at the time _because fucking hell she almost killed him, _but leaves the triumphant bark of laughter when her second bullet leaves a crater in the girl's forehead.

But next time she'll do the seducing and he can keep the high spot.


	5. Chapter 5

(And the one time she wanted to)

* * *

"Well, that was surprising."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't mean anything, Tasha. It's just…you _know_ what I mean."

"You mean that pretty girls can't be gruesome assassins."

"That is _obviously_ not the case. It's just… _surprising_ is all."

"Misogynist."

"Are you feeling bitter because I had to do all the work?"

Phil Coulson notices the look on Black Widow's face with a sigh. He _had_ been attempting to debrief his two agents en route to the helicarrier from Veracruz, but it looked like that wasn't really going to happen.

Instead, he pulls out another sheet and decides he might as well get a jump on the paperwork: _Also From Case #8544-6: Agent Barton brought this one on himself._


End file.
